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When a wife dies the husband inherits only half of the goods belonging to her —except what she has expressly left him as a legacy ; her children are her heirs and if she has none , the children of her sister or other female relative . The man can ' inherit from his own race only in the female line , — -from his another or his female relatives ; and his property goes not to his own children , but the children of his sister or nearest female relation . The old Roman laws of creditor and debtor come into our minds as we read the following : — There exists at Borneo , as I have already said , a class of slaves , partly prisoners taken in war , and partly debtors who have not been able to meet the claims on them at the appointed time , and have fallen consequently into the power of the creditor , as a forfeited pledge . In accordance with this barbarous law , the debtor must serve his creditor as a slave until Ihe debt is liquidated ; and should he die before that time , his wife , his son , his daughter , or the nearest of his other relatives , has to take his j > lace . * Whoever does not pay his taxes to the sultan for three years , becomes his slave . We might multiply extracts ; but t hese will suffice to indicate the sort o interest belonging to the work . f
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GILBERT MASSENGER . Gilbert Massenger . By Holme Lee . S m itb , Elder , and Co This book has not quite satisfied us . It does not exhibit any advance in skilfulness of literary treatment on the author ' s former work j and its subject is not so well chosen as the subject of " Thorney Hall . " There is a favourite topic in recent English fiction which has become worn out by too much use , and there is also a favourite personne , of whom we have lately seen rather more than is entirely agreeable . The topic is the nobleness of sacri 6 cing affection to a sense of duty ; the character is a puritanically pious old maid . Any novel readers who will exercise their memories will , we believe , bear us out in the assertion , that a very large proportion of recent stories set forth the subject and contain the character , to the incessant reiteration of both of which we have objected . Holme Lee has , we are sorry to say , fallen this time into the error of working with worn-out materials . " Gilbert Massenger " sacrifices his love to his imperative sense of the duty of remaining single , as member of a family afflicted with hereditary insanity ; and " Gilbert
Masof sufficient variety in the authoress's life . We are inclined to suspect that she lives too much in the same place , mixes too constantly with the same people , holds too tenaciously always to the same intellectual habits . Her book comes too much from the world within her ( as it seems to us ) , and too little from the world without . To observe among new scenes , and to study among new people , are very important ingredients in the materials which go towards the making up of a genuinely successful writer of fiction .
senger ' s" aunt is that same grim , lean , stiff , conscientious elderly female Protestant , against whose reappearance , in novel after novel , we strongly protest . The character of " Gilbert " is sustained equally and skilfully , but there is something in his dogged endurance and churlish self-restraint which may be true to nature , but which it is not agreeable to read . He gets more gracefully resigned and more gently religious as the story ends , but he is never a loveable character . His pious maiden-aunt can only , we imagine , be favourably appreciated by Calvinist readers ; and his lady-love , though very sweetly and tenderly conceived , is not made sufficiently striking to contrast successfully with the dreary hero and the grim aunt . Some oT the minor characters are much more successful than the principal personages of the book in exciting our interest , perhaps because they are generally associated with the more tender and winning passages of the story . Of one of these passages we will give an extract , by way of exhibiting "Gilbert Massenger" in his most interesting aspect to our readers : —
A CONFESSION OF LOVE . At last the pairing came—deferred certainly until the last moment ; but when the clock was on the stroke of eleven , he was ashamed to linger longer , and rose to go . His kind friend shook him heartily by the hand , wishing him every success . Gilbert then turned to Elleu , who stood near him with a rather pale little face : the separation was for an eternity of three months , remember , and their mutual love was unconfessed . " Gome out into the garden , Helen , there is a lovely moon , " whispered he ; and somehow he got her little hand in his close , warm clasp , and drew her out of the room , while her Uncle William cried , "Massenger , don't be mad : it is a bitter frost ; " then added to himself , when , they were beyond hearing , " Youth will have its day . " It was indeed a cold , sharp night ; but neither felt it .
" Helen , you know I love you—I cannot go without speaking , " said Gilbert , quickly : —" give me a promise that you will be mine when I dare to claim you . " A . cold gust of wind carried Helen ' s answer out of everybody's hearing , save his ; but it caused him to lift her in his arms , strain her to his heart , and call hor his ¦ " Sweet life—his joy—his hope—his darling . " "Put your hand in mine , Holen ; let me hear you say you trust me—you lovo me , " " I do , Gilbert—1 trust you entirely ; " and the frank eyes , glistening with tears , lifted themselves to his face , " You love me ?" " Yes . " Another franbio strain to his heart , a long kiss—the first , the last—and ho mraa . gane .
Helen stood under the porch for a few aeoonds , and then went in . Her tolltaie _ eyes eaved her . explanation with her uiiclo : lie understood what had passed . Wait patiently ,, my pet ; he will make you happy : I have seou it in his face all « -nt Bro * Tona s warning has come true : I shall go on my travels again . " JNo , unole , you won't ; you will have two people to love you instead of one , and you always , eay Gilbert suits you . " I "** 1 ** 16 one ' Uncle William is oontent if his precious jewel is happy . " He held out hja arms to hey , and she orept into thorn aa she had done when a child ; he Jcept her feat a long while , for Bhe had suffered the few toara to grow to a shower , and he would lmvo them shed nowhere else than on his breast . When she was calm he kissed hor
ogaiu , fondly , and bade her go dream and be happy . "After all , wns his reflection when ehe was gone , "it is hard to train up a » ioo warm-hearted thing to be the comfort of your lifa , and juafc when you have iearat * hat you can t do without her , to And some audaoious person putting in a ¦ claim for what-ho has not a shadow of right to . Well , I suppose I must submit . '' Wo write briefly of this book because we cannot write favourably of it . But , in what little wo have Baicl , it must bo understood that we have judged the authoress ( for we still persist in believing Holme Leo to bo a lady ) by an uncommon standard . Compared with ordinary novels , " Gilbert Masaenger , " faulty aa it is , gains immensely . It is the work of a person who can think and who can write , and of whoso future advance in her art wo still entertain good hope . If wo might venture on n guess , wo should bo inclined to say that the defects of this novel ore mainly tlio result of a wont
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ARRIVABEISTE'S ITALIAN POETS . Selections from , the Italian Poets , form ing an historical View of the Development of Italian Poetry from the Earliest Time to the Present . With Biographical Notices . By Charles Arrivabene . Eolandi . Signob Areivabene is an exile , and has soothed the weariness of exile by the composition of this work , which records the glory of his country—the splendour of Italian poetry . While the Austrian and French uniforms insult the eye of every Italian and every lover of Italy , it is well to remind men constantly of what a nation the Italian is—of what a noble part it has played in European culture and progress ; and Signor Arrivabene has been more truly patriotic in the composition of this book than if he had written thousands of wildmanifestoes , the only result of which would have been to make oppression more wakeful and more galling . Very much do we admire the tone of these notices , and the preliminary discourse : the ardent Liberalism of the writer is rather felt than seen ; it does not flame out into invective—it is the steady light of a conviction shining athwart every page .
At first sight the book seems to be no more than a very useful compendium for colleges , schools , and private students . It consists of an historical essay , tracing the development of Italian literature from its dawn to the present day ( an essay written in English , by the way , and very well written)—a selection from the works of all the great writers , in the manner of elegant extracts , with short biographical notices in Italian prefixed to each , and brief explanatory notes on obscure or obsolete expressions . This is the body of the book . For the student this is the plain , practical purpose it is meant to serve . But beside this practical purpose there is another : in the body there is a soul , and the soul is the breath of liberty . The student of Italian literature will take up this volume like any other educational help ; he will find it portable , practical , cheap , and not too redundant . But , while the student is thus using the book , Count Arrivabene will read it at Brussels , and smile approvingly on his nephew ' s patriotic effort .
As already hinted , the patriotism of Signor Arrivabene runs through the book , animates bis biographical notices , and often determines his selections . To cite but a single instance , what student will read that fine poem by Berchet , at page 384 , "Ella e sola , dinanzi le genti "—fine as a poem , terrible as a protest against the Austrian—without feeling his sympathies deeply awakened ? As a specimen of his style in writing English , and of the spirit in which his book is composed , read the following : — Little progress was made in Italian literature in the days of the French revolution—unhappy days indeed—in which all the monuments of art were brought by the great Corsican Conqxieror to the capital of his adoption . Nothing was spared in this shameful pillage by otir Republican friends on the other side of the Alps—nothing from the JLaocoonte of Rome to the Quadriga of the Venetian horses . Yet amidst the turmoil of those days , and the general admiration of the great deeds of Napoleon , the genius of Ugo Foscolo shines brightly forth from such be-starred courtiers aa Monti and Cesarotti . He cast bis verses in the
ancient mould of the great school , and was the chief of the romantic literature of his day . He had the right to exclaim
" I hate the vorse which sounds but does not create . " I do not mean by this that Monti does not deserve a great place among the classical poets of that time , but only that the enthusiastic and chivalrous character of the Italian poet whose ashes lie in this hospitable land command our love and admiration not more for the brightness of his poetry than for the consistent independence of his opinions . He disdaiued singing in his adopted land ( Greece ) for the gratification of the barbarian foreigner , and he sought for another whore he could freely touch the chords of hia immortal lyre . Aud he was right , for the gorgeous yoke of Napoleon ' s empire but was exchanged for a coarser and more galling one . The Austrian rulers had power to drive their cormons from one end of Italy to the other , and thought and poetry flourish not where the air is contaminated by the smoke of foreign artillery . Unhappily it was thus during the days of Foscolo , and it is thus now . The true poets of Italy refuse to soothe with their verses the toils of bondsmen : they prefer to rend the strings of their lyres rather than submit them to the senseloss scissors of Austrian censorship .
The independent and virgin power of faith and genius has found a home in a few solitary minds , who full of anxiety at the aspoot of present destinies yet with imagination and enthusiasm ( forces almost lost ) raise now and then a protesting cry against the great usurpation of brute force over intelligence . It is true that our ago announces itself everywhere in such sacred and solemn characters that we cannot but feel that something great moves within it . It is true that the triumph of science , thiB groat instrument of progress , appears already to nil minds as a necessary and glorious event in the lifo of the world ; to wish therefore to arrest it would be a simple folly , as to deny it would be pitiful pride . The car of humanity is inevitably dragged' along tlio road of iron aud firo though the goal at which it in to arrivo is , as yot , a mystery to man .
Still , while adoring that Providence who in the abyss of its designs , prepared thia epoch , and admiring the works of human thought which shapes itself into such noble manifestations in the fields wherein it is permitted to work , a sorrow —a deep sorrow—a melancholy rago has taken possession of those fow minds which seem destined to preserve the sacred flumes of faith . genius . They interrogate the present in every direction , and whoro in tho goneral condition of the world in tho condition of Italy in particular can they fmtl voices to inspire them ? They ask what powor governs aotivo society at this tiino , and the answer is buoIi as to make thorn shrink within thomsoIvoB , in tears and isolation . -As if to heighten their anguish , those few glorious mindo , servants of Ciod nlono , are compelled to linton to politicians and critics , who aooustomed to tlio restrictions of form and numbers , wish to compile- tho grammar of poetry also . Thus bewildered on tho one luvud by tho spirit of materialism , on tho other by tho dread of vacancy , what oourso of action remains to them but to revert to the past , to reunite scattered tradition ^ to rean imate- that corpao which at len « t w tho body of a giant ? Every reader of Italian possesses tho great cksaics , but very fow possess the
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1206 THE LEADE R . [ No . 299 , Saj ^ wday ,
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Leader (1850-1860), Dec. 15, 1855, page 1206, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse2.kdl.kcl.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2119/page/18/
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